


Sittin' in a Tree

by SeaAnemone



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, F/M, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, later followed by extremely resolved sexual tension if all goes to plan, now featuring Illya with vore v zakone tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-07 15:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10363899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaAnemone/pseuds/SeaAnemone
Summary: The one where they met as children.





	1. Chapter 1

 

It was his eyes that gave him away.

Everything else was changed beyond recognition, no remnants of the boy she knew, except the blue glow of his eyes. When she saw his shadowed face in the car across from hers last night, she couldn't believe it, and it took a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking. But she wasn't sure until today, when he peered down at her and called her his _fiancée_ , and she was tempted to throw the jewelry that cost more than her apartment in his face rather than on the floor.

He recognized her, too. She could tell from the way he stood next to her now, self-conscious and posture slouched; the strangled expression that passed over his features last night. He _must_ have recognized her.

"I see _you_ ate up all your vegetables," she muttered just loud enough for him to hear, as he was telling the saleswomen in perfect German which outfits to package for her.

Illya said nothing to her, but added to his clothing instructions, _Nothing in dark blue, it makes her look grandmotherly._ If that was an attempt to annoy her, she took the bait.

"Yes, you're much taller," she goaded, "wider, too. You used to be scrawny, skinny as a telephone pole. The Soviets must put something in their drinking water—"

He smiled falsely at the women behind the counter, grabbed Gaby's wrist and dragged her into a dressing room, whipping the curtain closed behind them.

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "People will get ideas."

" _Enough_ ," he scolded. "Be quiet."

"So you _do_ recognize me."

He squared his shoulders. Much, much taller. "Yes."

"Good. Then you should understand why I'm leaving." She swept the curtain aside and shoved past him, but he caught her wrist again.

"Think about this," he insisted. "Where would you go?"

She jerked her hand away. "It doesn't matter. Any place is better than East Germany."

"Do you really want to be on your own? If you help us now, we can help you. You—you are important asset."

"Is that what passes for a Soviet compliment?"

"Don't be childish," Illya said.

Gaby laughed incredulously. "If I were really so important, why would the Americans just hand me over to a _KGB agent_?" On the last words, her voice fell to a hiss. She did not appreciate being passed from one chaperone to the next with no say, like a piece of used furniture traded on a handshake deal.

"It is like he said. Russians and Americans are working together. The mission is too serious to compete with each other on this."

She shook her head. "No no, no. I know how this ends, and it's with me _back—behind—that—Wall._ "

"That will not happen. Please." He gestured to an armchair, placating. "Sit down. I will take care of the clothes."

She did, only because her new pinching shoes, like everything else, were becoming overwhelming. She traded them for the ones she came with, tattered and dirty and comfortable, and pretended the sinking feeling in her gut was just like stage nerves, fixable by taking a few deep breaths and closing her eyes.

"Gaby," he called, and she hated the way he said her name, in a clipped tone like she was a terrier who would come on command. "We must go."

She stood up. "Fine."

He eyed her shoes, then her dress. "They don't exactly match."

In a low voice with an exaggerated accent, she said, " _It doesn't have to match._ "

He rolled his eyes.

When they walked out onto the street, he took such enormous strides that it was a struggle to keep up with him. She bundled up her coat against the cold, while he seemed impervious to the weather.

"Did you know it was me? Last night?" she asked, barely audible over the whipping wind.

"Yes. I did."

"You could have _killed_ me."

"I wasn't trying to hurt you, just to get you away from _him_."

"Oh? And what about your handlers? What did they want to do, once you caught me?"

"They would not have harmed you. I promise."

"What— _you_ would have protected me? From _them_?" She scoffed. "No one could do that."

Illya fell silent as they stopped at the corner. Gaby stared at him until he was forced to meet her eyes. Even in that blue, she was losing all sense of familiarity, every feeling she had about him replaced with bitterness, a warm sea turned to salty ocean.

"What?" he demanded.

"You've become—everything I ever hated."

As he hailed a taxi, he handed her the bags too forcefully. Moments ago, he had put his giant hands on her waist with confidence. Now when her fingers grazed his, he flinched.

"Will be done in a few days," he said stiffly. "After that, we will never have to see each other again."

"Fine—good."

He opened the car door for her and she ducked in, his ring weighing down her hand, dread weighing down her heart.

 

* * *

 

Illya sat on the low brick wall across from his father's office, simultaneously trying to protect himself and his book from the rain. He held onto his umbrella with all his strength: if the wind took this one away too, his mother would be furious. It would be stormy all week, the weatherman had said: low barometric pressure, squall line activity and a cold front coming in from the coastal regions. _It's a week for umbrellas and wellingtons, folks._ He swung his feet, rubber boots squeaking against the brick as they made contact with it. Of course, he had been prepared: Illya listened to the weather broadcast every morning before class since they came to Berlin. He'd learned the German words for torrential downpour before he'd learned the one for groceries.

From the corner of his eye he caught movement, so he glanced up from his book. The street had been empty and quiet all afternoon, but now he noticed a pink figure approaching through the gray haze. As it came closer, he could make out drooping brown curls, a ballet costume, and pointe shoes covered in mud. The girl stopped at his brick wall and leaned against it, staring hard at the ground, fists clenched at her sides.

He heard his mother's voice in his mind: _Illyusha, always be a gentleman._ Without hesitation, he hopped down from his seat and walked over to her.

"You—you're all wet," he said by way of greeting, and winced at the stupidity of the statement. He wasn't very good at talking to strangers.

She looked up at him with wide eyes and a scowl. "It's _raining_."

He extended his umbrella-wielding arm. "Er, here—we can share this."

Her expression softened to a faint smile, and Illya thought that even rain-soaked, she looked very pretty. He moved in closer to shield them both with the umbrella.

"Danke," she said.

"Bitte," he pronounced carefully.

"What's your name?"

"Kristoph."

"Hm. You don't look like a Kristoph. You don't sound like one either." The boy's German was good, she thought, but too studied. Not like a normal German child's way of speaking.

"I…I don't know what you mean."

She surveyed him, looking suspicious. "Is that your _real_ name?"

He stayed silent.

"My name's Gabriella. But I like Gaby better."

"It's—it's Illya," he said uncomfortably. No one had questioned that name before. Was it really so obvious?

"Why did you lie?"

"Most people here don't like Soviets."

"Oh. I don't like them either, but my father works with them."

"Oh," Illya echoed. He tugged on his sleeve, which was exposed to the rain now that he was covering another person, and dampened through.

"It's not your fault, though. You didn't get to choose your home country, just like I didn't get to choose mine."

"You don't like it here?"

"No, not really." After a pause, she asked, "how old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"I'm fourteen. I've never seen you in school before."

"I don't go to the school here. I have a private tutor."

"Because people here don't like Soviets?"

"I don't know—but probably." Illya rubbed his eye conspicuously. "You ask a lot of questions."

"I'm just curious," she said defensively.

"Sorry—I didn't mean it was a bad thing."

"Sometimes I get in trouble for it, so I'm sensitive, I guess," she sighed.

"Sorry," he said again. "You can do it—ask me questions, I mean. If you want to."

Gaby laughed pleasantly as he stumbled over his words. "Thanks. That's nice of you." She stuck a hand out from the safety of their umbrella. "I think it stopped raining."

"You're right." He closed the umbrella and let it hang from his arm. "Too late for your shoes, though."

"Eh, it's okay. It'll teach him a lesson."

"Who?"

Then the doors of the stoic building across the street burst open, and men in grey suits and black shoes poured down the steps. When Illya saw his father emerge chatting with another man, he rushed up to greet him, Gaby staying behind.

"Guten abend, Vater."

"Ah! Udo, this is my son." His father smiled proudly and ruffled his hair. "Illya, I'm glad to see you are making friends. Who's that?" He pointed at the dripping ballerina.

Recognition flashed over Dr. Teller's face with an edge of the kind of embarrassment that could only come from being a father. "Gabriella! What are you—" As she was marching over, glowering, he noticed her silk practice outfit clearly destroyed by the natural elements. "What have you done to your shoes? You know how difficult it is for Frau Müller to replace these things for you."

"You forgot to pick me up from ballet. _Again_." She spoke in a hardened voice, with an edge of the kind of exhaustion that can only come from constantly repeating oneself just to be ignored.

"Oh no, I'm sorry _liebling_. But my work is—"

"You always forget! It's like you don't even know I exist!"

"Gabriella, please—"

"And I _hate_ that name. I _told_ you I like Gaby better!"

"Udo, is this your daughter?"

"Er, yes, this is my Gaby."

"Do you really let her speak to you this way? It's very inappropriate," Mr. Kuryakin chided.

"It's alright, Semyon. My Gaby—she's just very headstrong, this one." He reached out to pat her head but she jerked away. "A real—independent thinker."

Illya couldn't understand why adults always treated that like it was a bad thing. He looked at Gaby, her eyes downcast and arms crossed in anger, and decided that he did not like her father very much.

"Obedience is taught, dear Udo, children are not born with it. In any case, we should be going. _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Udo, Miss Gaby. Illyusha, come."

"See you tomorrow, probably," Gaby muttered to Illya with an eye-roll.

"Okay," he replied as he and his father walked away, " _Auf Wiedersehen._ "

Tomorrow, Illya would remember to bring the bigger umbrella.


	2. Chapter 2

 

The trees whizzing past the cabin window had looked the same for an hour now, giving Gaby the vague feeling of being trapped in a zoetrope of the West German countryside. At first she had been excited to see the other part of her country that had faded in her memory over the years, but the scenery had grown boring within the first fifteen minutes. Yet she would be voluntarily bored out of her skull if it meant she didn’t have to acknowledge her fellow passenger for a bit longer.

Still, she was overly aware of his presence on the opposite side of the cabin, reading the paper in his native language. Gaby was nervous about the size of the room when they arrived, the porter making a crack about it as well:

"Awfully small accommodations, by the looks of it. The two of you will have to get cozy for the next few hours."

"We will manage. Won't we, _kroshka_?"

The pet name had been a step too far for Gaby, so when Illya slid an arm around her shoulders, she shook it off and didn't say a word.

The conductor cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, I'll—just leave you lovebirds be, then."

As soon as the door was closed, Illya was glaring at her. "We are supposed to be engaged. You cannot act like it burns when I touch you."

" _You_ cannot call me nicknames in Russian. What does that even mean?"

"Nothing bad. _Kroshka_ —is like 'baby,' in English."

Gaby glared right back. "You are _not_ allowed to call me baby, in any language. Is that clear?"

He scoffed dismissively. "Very."

They hadn't spoken again since that, quarantined to the opposite ends of their closet-sized space.

Eventually she was fed up with punishing herself when she had done nothing wrong, so she went to search her bag for anything interesting to do. Unfortunately getting to the overhead compartment meant standing directly in front of Illya, who, after glancing up at her in mild alarm, returned to reading and ignoring her.

Of course, she had nothing more than the clothes on her back the night she escaped and the new ones purchased for her, and cursed her past self for not remembering to buy some pulp fiction novel outside the station, not even a paper or magazine.

She sighed, and as she was zipping her case shut again, the train swerved sharply and she lurched forward, nearly losing her balance. Illya dropped his paper and caught her awkwardly, hands at her hips. As soon as she was steady he pulled away and raised his arms in surrender.

"Sorry."

Gaby rolled her eyes. "It's fine. Thanks. You don't happen to have an extra book in German, do you? I'll even take English at this point."

Illya nodded and stood up beside her, though there was barely room to do so. They were practically pressed shoulder-to-shoulder while he rummaged through his bag, finally pulling out a thin book.

"In German," he announced.

She took it, wrinkling her nose when she read the title. "It'll do. Thank you."

He looked at her incredulously, apparently unable to see how such a book wouldn't appeal to everyone.

"Is a classic," he insisted.

"A _Russian_ classic," she qualified.

Illya clenched his jaw, and Gaby almost laughed at how easy it was to get under his skin. In the absence of anything else to do, she would have to remember that _that_ was a suitable pastime in itself.

"I need air," he said after a lengthy pause. "I am going for coffee. Are you coming?"

"Do we have to be engaged out there?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

"Then, no thank you. I'll stay here." She wasn't ready to wander out in public again and play-act the love-struck fool with him, not yet. He seemed to take offense to it, his shoulders squaring.

"Fine," he said stiffly, and left.

Gaby settled on one of the benches with her legs outstretched, just barely short enough to fit. Illya would have a difficult time sleeping here tonight, if he even slept at all. Perhaps the Soviet scientists had figured out a way to remove the need for sleep, replaced it with an hour spent praising Mother Russia, she thought resentfully.

She opened the tattered volume and found that Illya's name was printed cleanly inside the cover, above a German address. She wondered how long he had had this book, and if this translation had helped to teach him German. That would certainly explain why he stood out as a child: most fifteen year olds didn't possess the vocabulary of 19th century authors.

Her eyes glazed almost immediately as she started reading, veering back toward the window and the orange light that a setting sun was now casting over the trees, but at least she was comfortable now, reclined and alone.

 

* * *

 

"Keep your hands out, you can't flinch! If you flinch then you lose."

"What is this game called again?"

"Hot hands."

"It seems—very violent."

"It's not about getting hurt, it's about having the best reflexes." Her fingers twitched under his, then moved to hit the top of his hands. He recoiled, but not before she hit them with a satisfying smack. "Ha! See? It's fun!"

"If you say so."

Illya didn't care much for absentminded games, but if Gaby wanted to play them, he could hardly say no. It gave him the chance to pay attention to her, and he found himself noticing things about her that he had never paid attention to in anyone else before. He now had a mental catalogue of the outfits she wore: on Mondays it was the plaid skirt and light blue blouse; on Tuesdays was the red jacket and black pants. Wednesdays were his favorite, like today, when she wore her large wool sweater, her hair in braids with ribbons on the ends.

Gaby paid attention to him, too. The way he smiled, small and rare, like he was sharing a secret with her each time. Other boys her age would shout and chase and carry on, but he acted more like an adult than another child. She liked that about him.

Still, she needed to bring out the childish in him sometimes, which was why she was trying to teach him a game to pass the time. It became boring very quickly, once she could tell that he was letting her win.

She took pity on him: "It's okay, we can do something else." She paused and surveyed the empty street. "So, do you normally just sit here the whole time?"

Illya shrugged. "Yes, but it's not so bad. Usually I read my books."

"We still have a whole _hour_ though. We should do something."

"Something—like what?" The way her eyes lit up made him nervous.

She grabbed his wrist. "Come on!"

Illya allowed himself to be dragged down the street, to the largest oak tree that sat on the block.

"Do you know how to climb them?"

"Uh—yes. It's just a tree."

"Okay, you first then."

"You should go. That way, if you fall, I can catch you." 

Gaby grinned. "I won't fall, but thanks."

She heaved herself up expertly to the first horizontal branch and took a seat. "Go ahead!" she called down, swinging her legs comfortably.

"Er—right." Illya studied the bark, searching for his best path to the top with minimal chance of embarrassing him.

"You're probably tall enough to jump up here, you know," she sang.

"I'm not _that_ tall."

"Well, start with that knot by your knees for a foothold."

"That is…one way, I guess."

She was partially right; he only needed to climb about three steps up before he could reach her branch, and after just one fumble, where his shoe slipped but he managed to recover without too much damage to his ego, he was there and she moved over to make space for him.

"Now that you're up here, I have a surprise." Gaby fumbled through her backpack and proudly displayed a candy box. 

"What are they?"

"Chocolate covered raisins!"

Illya smiled at her. "That sounds nice."

She opened the package and poured some into his hands, then her own. "I heard that kids at school got some of these from Uncle Wiggly Wings once."

Illya looked confused. "Who is that?"

"Oh, he's the American who flew over Berlin and dropped candy and things for the children here. Everybody loves him."

"Oh." Illya shifted, always uncomfortable when the Americans came up.

"Americans aren't so bad, you know. They seem nice," she whispered.

Illya stared down at the ground. "My father says it's more complicated than that. He says they don't have the same principles as we do."

"Well, if bringing us candy is an American principle, then I like theirs better."

"You shouldn't say things like that. You could get in trouble," he scolded.

"Nobody's going to hear me," Gaby replied, gesturing at the barren street. "Look, why does it bother you so much?"

"Because—we're not the enemy."

"What, you mean the Soviets? But you're not—"

"—I'm still _one_ of them. I know you hate them, but…" he trailed off.

Gaby looked at the boy next to her, the hard line of his jaw in that pained expression. "Illya, I know you're not my enemy. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm sorry," she offered gently. He still refused to look up, so she continued, "I don't like them, but I like you. That's okay, isn't it?" 

Illya exhaled slowly. " _Ja._ That's okay."

Gaby extended her arm to offer the only olive branch she could: more candy. He accepted, and rewarded her with a half-smile.

"So—what do you want to do when you grow up?" she asked.

"I want to be a scientist," he answered.

"Like my father?"

"Maybe, what kind of scientist is he?"

She blinked. "I don't really know, I think it's something with chemicals."

"Oh, well, I like space exploration the best." He took another handful from the box. "What about you, a ballerina?"

She snorted. "No, definitely not. I want to do something that will let me travel to other places, like London and Rome and Paris."

Gaby shook the candy box, confirming that it was empty. "Do you want some more? I have another packet."

"Sure. Where did you get these?"

"Sometimes Papa brings sweet things home, like candy. I think he gets them from work. He gave me these for my birthday."

"When was your birthday?"

"Last Saturday."

Illya stared at her wide-eyed. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"It's okay, we've only known each other for a little while." She paused to lick the remaining chocolate off her fingers and wiped them on her skirt.  "What time is it?"

Illya checked his watch. "Almost 5 o'clock."

"We should go back, I guess."

 Once the two were back safely on the ground, Gaby began to walk back to their fathers' office, but Illya stopped her. 

"Wait," he called.

She stopped and turned around. "What's up?"

He searched through his bag and pulled out a book, offering it to her. "Here, for your birthday."

Gaby took it and looked it over. "What is it?"

" _The Hunchback of Notre-Dame_. It takes place in Paris, so you can read it and imagine you're there." Gaby hugged the book against her chest and grinned. "Thanks, I'd like that."

 

* * *

 

Gaby blinked heavily and pushed her book off her face. She must have drifted off, remembering a moment that she hadn't thought about in years. She glanced at the book Illya had loaned her now: The Death of Ivan Ilyich—Tolstoy. She hated it so far. But she had liked Victor Hugo; she wondered if that book was still in her flat in Berlin. Not that it mattered, she couldn't exactly go back and look for it. All of her earthly possessions were as good as gone now.

She must have drifted off again, because it was dark by the time Illya came back to the cabin. She squinted against the beam of light that shone in when he opened the door, and rather than have to talk to him again tonight, she opted to close her eyes and pretend to be asleep.

He proceeded quietly, turning on the small faucet without switching on a light. Curious to see how the Soviet automaton prepared to recharge, she watched his nighttime routine through half-lidded eyes. First he removed his tie and shirt, laid them on the vacant bench. He tested the temperature of the running water with his hand, splashed it on his face, brushed his teeth. Then ran a wet comb through his hair followed by his hand, leaving it tousled and boyish.

When he pulled off his undershirt and tossed it beside the rest, Gaby broke her cover and gasped loudly. He grabbed the shirt again in surprise and attempted to cover his bare chest.

"I thought you were _asleep_ ," he snapped.

"What _are_ those?" she marveled. She could understand now why he preferred long sleeves and turtlenecks. There were barely three inches of skin that weren't touched by ink, tattoos decorating the entire plane of his back, his chest, even his arms, in ornate symbols and Cyrillic characters.

"You should not spy on me," he scolded.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you. But why do you have all that? Are they real?"

He scoffed at the question. "Of course they are. They are family markings."

"What kind of family would do that?"

"The _vory v zakone_."

"You were undercover?" He nodded as he quickly shrugged his undershirt back on. "How long?"

Hesitantly, he answered, "Four years."

"Four _years?_ "

"Yes. Most go for longer, but I completed my objective in four." Gaby couldn't tell if that was an attempt at bragging, but she felt more blindsided than impressed.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Another hesitation. "Yes."

"And people have tried to kill you?"

"Yes. You saw this yesterday, with the American."

"He—" Gaby pushed against the memory of seeing him drop and disappear between the walls, waiting for the explosion and the horrifying nightmare of seeing him in pieces. "He wouldn't have _killed_ you."

"Yes, he would have. But I would have killed him too. That is espionage."

She stared at him, searching him for answers but finding none. How could the boy she knew have grown up to infiltrate the Russian mob, to have license to kill? He had skinny legs and knobby knees. He wore bowties that his mother must have tied for him.

"Did they hurt very much?"

"What?"

"Your—family markings."

He shrugged. "Not as much as other things."

"My God, Illya…" she breathed.

When their eyes met, he looked impossibly sad for a moment, before he glanced elsewhere. "That is the first time you have said my name, since we started."

She was taken aback. "That can't be true."

"It is. I've been waiting."

"Illya," she repeated for good measure. "I'm sorry. I really am."

He clicked his tongue, trying to play it off nonchalantly. "S'okay." After a pause: "Do you like the book?"

Gaby smiled crookedly. "It's awful. You used to have much better taste in fiction."

He laughed softly.

She pushed herself into an upright position, set the book aside. "Illya," she whispered, "I don't think I can do this."

"If you dislike the book so much—"

"No," she laughed shakily, "I mean _this._ The mission, espionage, whatever you call it."

Illya's expression went very soft when he sat down next to her. "Yes, you can. You're brave, and smart. And you won't be alone." He extended his hand on the bench, just enough to offer comfort without yet touching her. She accepted, reaching forward and wrapping her fingers around his.

"You should sleep. It's getting late,” he whispered.

She nodded. "You should too. Unless you just need a fresh set of batteries instead."

He rolled his eyes. "No, I still need sleep. You really think I am robot?"

Gaby stretched her shoulders. "Mm, no. Not anymore."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I called it "Sittin' in a Tree" so I had to have them sit in a tree, right?? Of course right! 
> 
> Also, if anyone else watched Eastern Promises and immediately became obsessed with the idea of Illya having vore tattoos please raise your hand *raises hand high* 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's still following even though I've been garbage at updating, and any new readers who find this now!! My semester is FINALLY over, so I hope to be better about it now. Please let me know what ya think! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Kid Illya = precious. Kid Gaby = precious. Together they would be unbearably perfect cinnamon rolls.  
> I really love thinking about what they must have been like as children, especially poor Illya. I imagine this reserved but sweet kid, clever, with a temper he tries to control. And definitely a mama's boy. Then the KGB came along and tried to beat that goodness out of him but they couldn't because he's JUST. TOO. GOOD.  
> I think Gaby would be Scout-like, fighting the boys who are jerks, standing up for other kids, and when people said "no you can't, because you're a girl," she said "WATCH ME." Basically a BAMF young lady, no surprises there.  
> I'm so very excited about writing this one, more so than any other! All of the chapters will have the same format, with present moments and past moments mixed together. I'll be taking some liberties on things like their relative ages, who scooped up Dr. Teller after the war, obviously where Illya's family lived if they manage to be childhood friends, how some of the scenes from the movie go, etc. But they'll still be the same infatuated dorks we know and love.  
> As always, thank you for reading, please let me know what you think c: and if you have thoughts on kid Illya or kid Gaby (or kid Napoleon, or even kid Waverly because THAT would be fascinating), I'd love to hear them!


End file.
